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TABLE OF CONTENTS 

Page 

Introduction 3 

Note by the Author 6 

PATRIOTIC 

A Memorial Day Recitation 7 

A Tribute to Washington 11 

The Conscript 12 

Tribute to the Grand Army 15 

To the Memory of General Grant 16 

Kipling Revised 18 

The Passing of the G. A. R 20 

Major General Reynolds 21 

Our National Emblem : 2 3 

Welcome to Dewey 24 

The Pension Question 25 

MISCELLANEOUS 

The Buckwheat Cake 2 7 



After the Election 


28 


Thanksgiving Day 


29 


Fits or Misfits 


29 


The First Bug of Summer 


30 


Minus Hair 


30 


The Mug-Wump 


31 


The Yellow Journalist 


32 


Modern Woes 


33 


Conceit 


33 


The Pessimist 


34 


Up-to-Date Version 


35 



The Farmer's Boy 36 

Be Optimistic 38 

Peace 3 8 

Experience vs. Theory 39 

The Passing of the Year 40 

Cranks 41 

A Tribute to Woman 42 

Mental Gymnastics 44 



Page 

Lack of Sand 47 

A Reverie 48 

Shams 49 

The Deadbeat 50 

His Own Opinion 50 

RELIGIOUS 

A Soliloquy 51 

Hymn of Praise 53 

On the Death of a Daughter 54 

Christ's Coronation 55 

The True Source of Success 57 

Life's Pathway 58 

Thoughts on the New Year 60 

The True Ground of Trust 62 

Reign of the Righteous 63 

Wondi-ous Love 64 

The Liquor Traffic 65 

Divinity of Christ 67 

Human Life 68 

On the Death of a Friend 69 

Satisfied 69 

The Future Life 70 

Trust 70 

The Golden Wedding 71 

On the Death of a Child 72 

An Apostrophe 73 

The Passing of the Year 74 

On the Death of a Brother 75 





^ 




L 




».:. 
k 



THE AUTHOR 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



WRITTEN BY 

JOSEPH MOORHEAD 

BLAIRSVILLE, PA. 



Price, Bound in Cloth, $ 



PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR, FEBRUARY 1911 



^^ 






Copyright 1911 

by 

JOSEPH MOORHEAD 

Blairsvllle. Pa. 



©CI.A289146 



INTRODUCTION 



It gives me great pleasure to write a few lines of intro- 
duction to this book of poems from the pen of Mr. Joseph 
Moorhead, of Blairsville, Pa. While pastor of the First 
Presbyterian Church of Blairsville for six years, 1905-191Q, 
I was closely associated with Mr. Moorhead, he being the 
senior member of the Session. 

Joseph Moorhead was born in Burrell township, Indiana 
county, Pennsylvania, August 16, 1829, of a long line of 
Scotch-Irish ancestry. He is a characteristic Scotchman, 
with the integrity, firmness, grit, pluck and perseverance 
of that noble race. His opportunities for obtaining an ed- 
ucation were very meagre, being limited to three months 
a year in the public schools of that day, with almost 
weekly intervals at various kinds of farm work after he 
became old enough to assist. He cannot be said to be a 
product of the schools, but rather a self-made man. He 
was endowed with a good mind, a desire for knowledge, and 
a taste for literature. Early in life he acquired a fondness 
for reading quite in excess of his love for society. He has 
a remarkable memory. Nature endowed him with a sound 
body, a rugged physical constitution, and he has not known 



INTRODUCTION 



sickness. He owes much to several sisters of good educa- 
tion, whose influence was very helpful. Especially was he 
blessed with one of the best and most godly mothers, who 
instilled in his youthful heart the fear of God and the prin- 
ciples of true faith and sound doctrine. She taught him 
by precept and example that ''the chief end of man is to 
glorify God and enjoy Him forever." 

Mr. Moorhead is a Presbyterian through and through, 
accepting the Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments as 
"the only infallible rule of faith and practice," and the 
Westminster Confession of Faith as containing the "system 
of doctrine" taught in the Holy Scriptures. He is an ar- 
dent advocate of strong doctrine, but always with a view to 
upright life and correct conduct; with him doctrine stands 
related to deed as cause to effect. 

Mr. Moorhead is a man of good common sense, who be- 
lieves that common sense is something that a man cannot 
possess to excess. He takes a philosophical view of life, 
is of cheerful disposition and a real optimist. 

He is 82 years young, and throughout his poems there 
runs a vein of wit and humor. His love of music, flowers 
and little children has helped to keep him young, and ac- 
counts in a large measure for his buoyancy of spirit and 
helpful outlook upon life. His pathway has not always 
been smooth; the experiences of his life have been severe 
at times, but he has been sustained by an unfaltering faith 
in God, to whose grace and mercy he ascribes all the credit 
of his life and achievements. 



PAGE FOUR 



INTRODUCTION 



His many friends will welcome this little volume of 
poems and will find much pleasure in reading and ponder- 
ing these products of the pen and heart of one whose edu- 
cation has been obtained in the school of experience and 
observation. We bespeak for this book a generous circula- 
tion, which it deserves, and for its author our prayer is 
that his remaining years may be full of peace and comfort 
and ' ' at evening time may there be light. ' ' 

Very sincerely, 

WILLIAM LEROY BARRETT, 

Pastor First Presbyterian Church, Belief ontaine, 0. 

January 18, 1911. 



PAGE FIVE 



NOTE BY THE AUTHOR 



The contents of the following pages were written be- 
tween the ages of forty and eighty years, and have been put 
into book form by the writer in large measure as an heir- 
loom for the benefit of the members of his immediate family, 
to whom they are dedicated in loving affection for their 
unfailing kindness to him throughout a long life time. 

As may be noted from the headings, many of them were 
written for special occasions for recitation at the time; 
while others give voice to the personal experience and ob- 
servation of the writer, and convey lessons from the book of 
Life as he has read it. 

Without any claims as to the grandeur of thought or 
poetic beauty of these lines, we present them with the wish 
that others by their perusal may be enabled to gain inspira- 
tion and hope in all of life 's vicissitudes. 



i 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



PATRIOTIC 



A MEMORIAL DAY RECITATION 

An occasion like the present furnishes its own inspira- 
tion. Standing face to face with the best manhood and 
womanhood of the age — an audience composed of American 
citizens, the highest style of man — each man the peer of 
every other man, himself without a peer; bowing to no 
scepter but that of the Eternal, recognizing no higher hu- 
man authority than the will of the people as expressed at 
the ballot box; joint heirs to a heritage of freedom richer 
far than ever dreamed of by Greek or Roman; no gilded 
palace of the Caesars or Arc de Triomph — builded as they 
were by the tears and blood of the nations — is worthy to 
be compared to this grand Temple of Liberty in which we 
dwell, whose chief corner-stone is human right. In such a 
presence 

I would not tell a wondrous story 
Of deeds performed on fields of glory, 
Nor delve in history's musty pages, 
Clothing with life the thought of ages ; 
Much less rehearse in words sublime 
The acts of men of other clime ; 
But rather seek in simplest rhyme 
To speak of those of our own time; 
In earnest, truthful words to tell 
Of men who for their country fell. 

PAGE SEVEN 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



When hell-born treason raised its impious head, 
O'er all the land was heard her minions' tread, 

Dread augury of strife. 
When men in high position betrayed their trust. 
Trailing our country's ensign in the dust, 
These men, to peaceful avocation given. 
Registered a vow before high heaven 

And sealed it with their blood. 
Through weary months of marching over Southern hill and 

vale, 
Whether in cloud or sunshine or 'mid the leaden hail ; 
Assailed by rebels in the front, by traitors in the rear. 
They had a faith unmixed with doubt, their courage knew 

no fear. 
Some of them died in prison pens, many while fighting Lee, 
Others died while marching with Sherman to the sea. 
Some lost their lives in Southern swamps amid the for- 
est's gloom; 
Many were marked as missing, no man hath seen their tomb ; 
Beside Potomac's turbid stream, beneath Atlantic's waves. 
From Cape Fear to the Rio G-rande they rest in unknown 

graves. 
All through Virginia's pine-clad hills, down by the broad 

Santee, 
On every wide savanna from Lookout to the Sea; 
At Manassas and Fair Oaks, Gains' Mill and Malvern Hill, 
In Fredericksburg's dread slaughter-pen, also at Chancel- 

lorsville ; 
At Bull Run and Chantilly, on South Mountain's rugged 

steep, 
Antietam's well-contested field — hosts of these heroes sleep. 
On Lookout Mountain's dizzy height, down by Stone 

River's flood, 

PAGE EIGHT 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



On Vicksburg's frowning battlements, Atlanta bathed in 

blood; 
At Cold Harbor, in the Wilderness, at Spottsylvania too, 
On freedom's soil at Gettysburg — there rest the Boys in 

Blue. 
'Mid Shenandoah 's fertile vale, by Shiloh 's Church of God, 
On Chicamaugua 's bloody field — they sleep beneath the sod. 
Some e'en were not permitted to perish 'mid the fray, 
"Within the army hospitals they breathed their lives away; 
With parched lip and fevered brow, far from their friends 

and home. 
No mother's voice or hand to smooth their pathway to the 

tomb; 
Not on the high places of the field, where the soldier loves 

to die, 
Amid the charging squadrons, cheered by their battle-cry; 
Their names were not recorded among the gallant slain. 
Their lives went out in silence from weary beds of pain. 

They were not great men as the World would rate, 

Not being versed in the affairs of State, 

Perhaps not even wise in thought or word 

For they were rather of the Common Herd; 

Nor were they noble men by blood or birth. 

They had their lot among the lowly ones of Earth ) 

But nobler men the earth have never trod 

For they were truly noblemen of God. 

Not at the beck of proud ambition's call. 

Nor lured by hope of earthly glory did they fall. 

But future history and the coming muse shall tell 

'Twas in defence of human right they fell. 

They fell, and o'er their mouldering clay 

There dawned a fairer, brighter day 



PAGE NINE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



Of freedom than this Nation ever saw, 

And now all men are equal, at least before the law. 

Their fame shall shine more bright and fair, as years 

their lustre lend. 
So long as heroism lasts, or freedom has a friend. 

Men have called it a Utopian dream, a bright, but fragile 

flower, 
A bubble liable to burst in any trying hour — 
In the light of this brief history do you think it a chimera, 
A phantom, or like the morning's mist on some western 

sierra ; 
Four hundred thousand loyal lives, the best blood of the 

Nation, 
On Freedom's altar sacrificed to purchase its salvation, 
While thrice four hundred thousand more, inspired by like 

devotion. 
Stood ready to defend the flag either on land or ocean. 
And while we reckon up its price shall we forget — no, 

never ! 
The many thousand darkened homes whose light went out 

forever. 

If through the coming years this Nation in its pride 
Shall e'er forget on which side of the conflict these men 

died; 
Should the great principles for which the}^ fought be sold 
For love of ease or baser love of gold, 
Then shall the last, best hopes of Freedom take their flight, 
The sun of Liberty have set in an eternal night. 



PAGE TEN 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



A TRIBUTE TO WASHINGTON 

We would speak to you of Washington, the man of all the 

ages, 
The brightest star in the galaxy of patriots, statesmen, 

sages ; 
Guide of the race to higher things, teacher of earth's best 

lesson 
In the struggle of the masses for freedom from appression. 
Wise in conception, clear in thought, faultless in deduction. 
He mastered the complete details for tyranny's destruction. 
Wide as the world his empire 's reach, mankind would have 

him lead them. 
Would put their trust in his guiding hand to a higher, truer 

freedom — 
A freedom based on natural right, builded on truth and 

reason, 
A liberty controlled by law, where anarchy is treason. 
Freedom of action and of thought, untrammeled by super- 
stition. 
Freedom to serve the living God — man's highest, truest 

mission. 



PAGE ELEVEN 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



THE CONSCRIPT 

In Eighteen hundred and Sixty-one 

Going to war was thought to be fun 

And every 3^oung lad that could shoulder a gun 

Went forth to serve his country. 

During the summer of Sixty-two 

Going to war appeared rather blue, 

And a great many patriots scarce knew what to do 

The better to serve their country. 

In the early spring time of Sixty-three 

There was considerable trouble with Robert E. Lee 

And many were ready to bow the knee 

In order to save their country. 

Said Lincoln to his bosom friend 

''I wash this cruel war would end — 

It was not of my creation, — 

Pray tell me what you think would tend 

To save this Yankee Nation?" 

Then Stanton quickly did reply, 

With a merry twinkle in his eye, 

' ' I think there are some others ; 

Suppose that we should make a call 

On those who love their mothers, — 

Including all those other things 

Long tied to woman's apron strings — 

And make them help their brothers." 

''The plan is good, I clearly see. 

We will draft in July Sixty-three 

And teach some men their duty. 

We will bring them out both East and West, 

From snowy white to sooty." 

And so they set the wheel to work 

PAGE TWELVE 



ORIGIXAL POEMS 



Which brought the conscript with a jerk 

That jarred his nervous system, 

And started every pain and ache — 

My, what wry faces he did make, 

As though rheumatiz did twist him. 

The notice said that they should meet 

At the Westmoreland county seat, 

In tones than thunder louder. 

To see if they well-fitted were 

For making food for powder. 

Behold they come, nor fife nor drum 

To cheer their drooping spirits, 

Without one drop of gin or rum. 

Each stood upon his merits. 

The first came up like some hound pup. 

His nerves all in a quiver. 

' ' Well, friend, what claim do you set up ? " 

"There is something wrong with my liver." 

Another came with solemn phiz. 

His words well set in order. 

' ' I think I 've got the rheumatiz 

Or some unknown disorder." 

"Ah. well, my man. I think you can. 

My the look of your back, well bear a knapsack, 

So I shall pass you under." 

"Ah. yes. I see; here's my commutation fee 

And this war may go to thunder ; 

It is well enough for those that are tough 

And have neither wife nor mother; 

The cause is good and worth rivers of blood — 

But I'd rather send my brother." 

One stalwart fellow, six foot four, 

Came hobbling up, "My feet are sore 

I never could stand tramping; 

PAGE THIRTEEN 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



Tis true I love m}^ country well 

But then I know those Rebel shell 

Would set my knees to cramping, 

And if it chanced that I should fall, 

Pierced by some murderous Minnie ball. 

Cooling my blood to zero, 

My mother dear would lose her all, 

The world would lose a hero." 

And there were also patriots dear 

That sought the widows' hearts to cheer — 

Most laudable ambition — 

While urging others to the fray 

They took good care to stay away 

And thus fulfilled their mission; 

To exercise of hope and trust 

Each lonely widow calling. 

While husbands, brothers turned to dust 

Like autumn leaves when falling. 

And some there were that staj^ed away, 

Disliking war's commotion; 

And some made tracks to Canada 

While others crossed the ocean. 

And now, kind friends, my task is done, 

'Tis but a brief description 

Of how great battles ne'er were won 

By some of the conscription. 



PAGE FOURTEEN 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



TRIBUTE TO THE GRAND ARMY 

Our days are swiftly passing by, old age is coming on ; 

In the cold grave we soon shall lie, we are passing one 

by one; 
E 'en Dealth itself can but remove your names from off 

Earth's roll, 
But it can't erase them from their place on future his- 

t'ry's scroll. 
When each stalwart form has crumbled into its native dust, 
When the muskets that you carried have been eaten up 

with rust. 
Until the Earth and sea beneath have given up their dead, 
The story of your deeds on earth by millions shall be read. 
For the work you did for freedom was for God's kingdom 

meet, 
And the trumpet of the Lord of Hosts shall never sound 

retreat. 
The shell that fell on Sumter's wall, in fratricidal strife, 
Was to this land a trumpet call to a higher, nobler life. 
Though men now boast of progress made, of power and 

glory rant, 
Of domestic thrift and foreign trade — the men Avho made 

these possible 
Were the men who followed Grant. 



PAGE FIFTEEN 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



TO THE MEMORY OF GENERAL GRANT 

[The following tribute to the memory of Major General U. 
S. Grant, was written by request and recited at the service 
held in Public School Hall, Blairsville, Pa., the day of his 
funeral.] 

We assemble today with hearts full of sadness, 

Alas ! the result has confirmed our fears ; 
The Nation's depressed with a sense of bereavement, 

Her dwellings in sackcloth, her children in tears. 

A great man has fallen, the pride of the people, 
Who led our hosts in the battle's dread strife, 

Disappointed the hopes of ambitious traitors 
Who sought to destroy our loved country's life. 

After long months of carnage and sad disappointment. 
When thousands of freemen slept under the sod. 

He dawned on the scene like the day star of gladness 
As though pointed out by the finger of God. 

No flourish of trumpets did herald his advent. 

Nor sweet chime of bells from moss-covered steeple; 

He was not born a prince with imperial title, 
Ulysses S. Grrant was a child of the people. 

By a series of victories that proved to all nations 
That no earthly powder the Union could sever; 

When the great rebel Lee had to bow at his mandate, 
The last hope of tyrants was blasted forever. 

We would take not one jot from the credit due others — 
What they might have accomplished is at best but a 
guess, — 



PAGE SIXTEEN 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



But Grant the undaunted, the peerless commander, 
Proved his title to lead by the test of success. 

Ever calm, self-possessed when directing the battle, 
'Mid threatened disaster he stood undismayed, 

Self-conscious of power inherent within him. 

Self-poised as though standing upon dress parade. 

On the field of Cold Harbor when thousands had fallen, 
And the soil of Virginia their life-blood had drank, 

Meade reported "all lost, the army defeated," 
He simply replied, "Move by the left flank." 

Brave, silent, determined, heroic commander, 
He feared no arch traitor the earth ever trod; 

After planting our flag on the ramparts of treason. 
Surrendered alone at the fiat of God. 

He'll no more be disturbed by the muskets' dread rattle, 
The wail of the wounded no more give him pain ; 

He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle, 
No sound shall awake him to glory again. 

His voice will be missed in the councils of mankind, 
He shall mingle no more in Earth's busy strife; 

The peace w^hich he craved, the rest that he needed 
May he have to the full by the River of Life. 



PAGE SEVENTEEN 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



KIPLING REVISED 

Take up the White man's mission 

Not as a burden to bear, 
Accept it just as freely 

As you do the clothes you wear 
Go wherever it leads j^ou, 

With unfaltering step go forth, 
Into Southern jungles 

Or ice fields of the North. 

Take up the White man's mission; 

It came to you unsought. 
Unworthy though you be 

The task is to be wrought. 
Not with hope of profit, 

But alone for others' gain 
The helpless, fallen creatures 

Y\]io have in bondage lain. 

Take up the White man's mission 

With cheerful heart and voice, 
Never looking backward 

Fulfill it as your choice; 
Though other men should sneer 

And carp at every turn, 
Go forward on Truth's pathway. 

The world has much to learn. 

Take up the White man's mission, 

Be Right the polar star 
Leading ever onward 

Whether in peace or war; 



PAGE EIGHTEEN 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



Though your goal seem distant, 
The end for otliers sought, 

And tangled be the web, 
It shall not come to naught. 

Take up the White man's mission 

Whatever others say; 
They fail to catch the music 

Or understand the play; 
Although thought may be broken 

And language may seem lame, 
In the end the Anglo-Saxon 

Shall play a winning game. 



PAGE NINETEEN 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



THE PASSING OF THE G. A. R. 

One by one they cross the river 

To that bourne whence none return, 

Yield their souls to God, the giver, 
Leaving comrades here to mourn. 

Soon the rear guard shall pass over 
And life's campaign ended be, 

And each veteran under cover 
Eest to all eternity. 

Soon earth's tattoo shall be sounded, 

Soon the eternal reveille, 
Then our weapons shall be grounded 
In the realms of endless day. 

When we hear the final roll-call. 
Which we shall, we know not when, 

May we qiiickly into line fall ; 
Let there be no stragglers then. 

May the Author of Salvation 
Stand to welcome us each one. 

And, before the v^^hole creation. 

To each comrade say, ''Well done." 

"Come, ye blessed of my Father, 
Take the crown prepared for you," 

When before the throne we gather 
For the final grand review. 



PAGE TWENTY 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



MAJOR GENERAL REYNOLDS 

[A tribute to the memory of Major General John F. Rey- 
nolds, who lost his life in the first day's battle at Gettysburg, 
July 1st, 1863.] 

Reynolds, pride of Pennsylvania, 

Dying at tli}^ country's call, 
Victim of foul treason's mania. 

She did mourn when thou didst fall. 

Bravest of the brave in battle, 

Born a spirit void of fear, 
Dreading not the muskets' rattle. 

Thou didst hold her honor dear. 

Honored son of Pennsylvania, 

Truest of the many true 
Whom she sent to represent her 

Among the men who wore the blue. 

In a sea of glory bathed 

On the many fields of strife, 
Thou didst pass through all unscathed. 

Thine had seemed a charmed life. 

When at length the rebel columns 

Did invade thy native state, 
Writing history in dark volumes 

Of eternal score and hate; 

Thou did'st haste to stay their progress 
With the First Corps Boys in Blue 

On the field become historic, 
Where Lee met his Waterloo. 

PAGE TWENTY-ONE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



When thou sawest the rebel minions 

G-athering eager for the fray, 
Like some vulture poised on pinions 
Seeking to secure its prey; 

What emotions filled thy spirit 
That first morning in July? 

Hope and fear, how they alternate; 
God decreed that thou must die. 

Could there have been a fitter ending, 
Hadst thou chosen where or when. 
Than to die while thus defending 

The peaceful land of William Penn. 

He has passed beyond the confines 
Of all earthly strife and pain; 

We would thank the God of Battles 
For the peace he died to gain. 



PAGE TWENTY-TWO 



OEIGINAL POEMS 



OUR NATIONAL EMBLEM 

I would tell you a tale of Old Glory, 
Flag of the brave and the free, 

Fit subject for earth's song and story 
As it waves o'er the Isles of the sea. 

Its stars shine forth with a brightness. 
Such as never was dreamed of before. 

Dispelling man's gloom, bringing lightness 
On the far distant Philippine shore. 

Emblem of all that is holy, 

Standard of that which is true, 
Hope of the high and the lowly — 

The beautiful, Red, White and Blue. 

Men have died 'mid the distant Antilles 

And stained the dear flag with their blood; 

She is fairest of all 'mongst the lilies ; 
May she wave evermore for man's good. 

Prompted to a higher ambition. 
To the standard of right ever true, 

May these isles take a higher position 

'Neath the folds of the Red, White and Blue. 

And thus throughout all the ages, 

As Liberty's lesson they scan, 
May they learn from out her bright pages 

That freedom 's the right of each man. 



PAGE TWENTY-THREE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



WELCOME TO DEWEY 

We would welcome yon, Admiral Dew^ey, 
From the far distant isles of the sea, 

To a place at yonr ow^n native hearthstone 
In this land of the brave and the free. 

We have heard of your great deeds of glory 

As they came unto us from afar ; 
We care not so much for this story, 

But love you for just what you are. 

It is true that your acts have shed lustre 

Upon the American name, 
While you and your jackies passed muster 

In the w^orld's brightest annals of fame. 

But while with high honor we greet you, 
And think of your deeds while w^e plan, 

Our highest, best thought, w^hen we meet you, 
Will be the modest American man. 

Best type of American story. 

We hail thee with anthems of joy. 

While you stand 'neath the folds of Old Glory 
As a model American boy. 



PAGE TWENTY-FOUR 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



THE PENSION QUESTION 

[Discussed from a Soldier's Standpoint.] 

Statesmen tell us that the pension roll is getting much too 

large, 
That the payment of the pensions is becoming quite a 

charge ; 
But in the years from Sixty-one to Eighteen Sixty-three 
They did not estimate the cost by the single rule of three. 

Suppose that we had stopped to count to see if it would pay 
With a knapsack for a pillow and fifty cents a day, 
While the gentlemen just landed from beyond the deep 

blue sea 
Kept safely in the background and made far more than we. 

Every rule of mathematics would have proved that we were 

fools, 
While the stay-at-homes made fortunes by selling spavined 

mules ; 
And the bonds that raised the money at a discount then 

were sold. 
But when the war was over were paid in solid gold. 

Suppose each man at Gettysburg in Eighteen Sixty-three, 
Instead of standing in the ranks had hid behind a tree, 
Had proved recreant to his promise and betrayed the loyal 

North ; 
With a divided country now, what would her bonds be 

worth ? 

'Twas through the men of Seventy-six that this fair 
Nation came, 

PAGE TWENTY-FIVE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



But it was the boys of Sixty-one that made it worth the 

name ; 
And the man who thinks that money would pay for what 

was done 
Has a very low conception of the freedom that we won. 

Now we see our country's banner in every land unfurled — 
And the echo of her morning gun re-echoes 'round the 

world — 
Emblem of all that's holy, benevolent and true, 
The hope of all the lowly, flag of the Boys in Blue. 

Through all the coming ages, whatever may betide — 
When through the roughest breakers the Ship of State 

may glide, 
Whate'er may be suggested, whatever may be done, — 
There will come an inspiration from the Boys of Sixty-one. 



PAGE TWENTY-SIX 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



MISCELLANEOUS 



THE BUCKWHEAT CAKE 

Now it may be all right for poets to boast 
Of the luscious pumpkin pie, 

And the good, old mother 's efforts toast 
While they laud it to the sky. 

But when of the dim and misty past 

A retrospect I take, 
A halo of glory still lingers 

Around the buckwheat cake. 

To see it bubble and sizzle 

Upon the griddle's face, 
No pumpkin pie, in our eye, 

Can ever take its place. 

It cometh in the Autumn time, 
When the frost is on the vine, 

And it tickleth the palate 

More than either milk or wine. 

When the cabbages are garnered 
And the sausage crop is ripe, 

The potatoes in the cellar, 
The Fall poetry in type. 

It is prized by the young and healthy, 
PAGE TWENTY-SEVEN 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



It is relished by the old, 
It is food for the poor or wealthy, 

But the dogs will scarce eat it when cold. 

For then it is tougher than leather, 
There is nothing like to it on earth ; 

'Tis depressing as the meanest of weather, 
Causing misery rather than mirth. 

It will last from breakfast till dinner, 
From dinner till supper 'twill last ; 

For rather than eat it a sinner 
Would turn a feast into a fast. 



AFTER THE ELECTION 

The chill November days have come, the saddest of the year ; 
The frost is on the pumpkin, the corn is in the ear ; 
The potato bug has gone to roost, the bumble bee has fled ; 
The campaign liar's lost his voice, the Mugwump's hopes 
are dead. 

No more we hear the howling of the wolf upon the hiU, 
The campaign orator descant on the merits of the still ; 
But all is calm and peaceful as Summer evenings be. 
The country has again been saved, the people still are free. 



Foul jealousy, the rage of all mankind. 

Without redeeming feature, vilest passion of the mind; 

Confined to no one region, class or school, 

When under thy dominion man's a fool. 

PAGE TWENTY-EIGHT 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



THANKSGIVING DAY 

Thanksgiving Day is drawing nigh; cranberry sauce 
and pumpkin pie will soon be on the table ; while the turkey 
gobbler and the turkey hen discuss the question of the 
right of men to pick their bones simply because they are 
able: By keeping up this annual feast and calling it 
Thanksgiving they take away our vested rights and fowl 
life's not worth living; pay no respect to age or sex, show 
no regard to stature ; and though we roost however high 
they fix the time for us to die, which. violates all nature. 



FITS OR MISFITS 

Some things there are that seem to fit, 
While others seem much fitter; 

The joys of life not worth a whit, 
Its sorrows oft quite bitter. 

Some are forever putting on 
Whatever seems to fit them. 

Because they think some other one 
Is trying hard to hit them. 

This life is made of many ills, 
But we should bravely meet them 

And promptly pay her many bills 
While joyfully we greet them. 



Man is a strange combination by impulse often led, 
He defames his fellow while living, eulogizes him when 
dead. 

PAGE TWENTY-NINE 



ORIGINAL P0E:MS 



THE FIRST BUG OF SUMMER 

The first bug of Summer went forth as a drummer 

With a line in the grocer}^ trade ; 
The first place he went on business intent 

All his finely formed plans were mislaid. 

lake a pig in the gutter he lit in the butter 
"While he carried his proud head aloft ; 

The more force he spent the deeper he went 
For the butter had gotten quite soft. 

That he saved life and limb it was lucky for him, 

In this season of hot summer air, 
That amid all its strife there's compensations in life 

For the butter was covered with hair. 



MINUS HAIR 

There is a balm for everj^ wound, 

A cordial for each care, 
But where is consolation found 

For the man that's minus hair. 

Though he be a Chesterfield in grace, 
Yea, though he be noble bred, 

No grace can ever take the place 
Of this covering for the head. 



PAGE THIRTY 



ORIGIXAL POEMS 



THE MUG WUMP 

The survival of the fittest 

Is a scientific fact, 
And on this hypothesis 

The Mugwump claims to act. 

When nature made the monkey 
She made him in the lump, 

But she took a special contract 
On the modern [Mugwump. 

He's a sort of hybrid nondescript 

That readily might pass 
For a cross between the monkey 

And an ordinary ass. 

The likeness of nothing in heaven above 

Or on the earth below. 
Though feathered like the eagle 

He squawks just like the crow. 

The whole process of his origin 
No mortal tongue could tell. 

But his bray is as the echo 

Of the well known donkey yell. 

He's a pious politician 

Of the esthetic school, 
Who thinks a Union soldier 

"Was a patriotic fool. 

So like unto Melchisedek, 

One readily might think 
In the plan of evolution, 

He must be the missing link. 

PAGE THIRTY-ONE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



THE YELLOW JOURNALIST 

If you cannot be a Dewey or a Hobson man by choice, 
If you cannot serve your country by either hand or voice, 
You can join the band of critics, loll in your hammock high, 
Outgeneral Ananias in the making of a lie. 

If down at Porto Rico or far away Malate — 

Where heroes fell for freedom from Spanish rule and 

hate — 
You w^ere not given courage the enemy to face. 
You can plan campaigns and battles within a good safe 

place. 

If you did not go to Cuba or take part in the war, 
On the hills of Santiago was not seen your rising star. 
If e'en at Chickamaugua, where heroes did encamp. 
You did not risk your carcass 'mid the Southern heat or 
damp; 

You can criticise our leaders, whether they be high or low, 
And tell in glowing language of other people's woe. 
Set forth in startling headlines the sufferings men endured, 
Of short supplies of rations, of disease that might be cured. 

You can scare the wives and children of our noble Boys in 

Blue, 
Cause tears and lamentations by the use of words untrue. 
Disgust men's finer feelings like any other brute 
Who never told an honest truth where 'er a lie would suit. 



PAGE THIRTY-TWO 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



MODERN WOES 

The bugs are on the potatoes, 
The fly is in the wheat; 

There are microbes in the water 
And trachina in the meat. 

There is war with the Filipinos, 
A Peace Congress at The Hague; 

Old China's in a turmoil, 
And India has the Plague. 

The World is growing older 
And wisdom comes with age, 

But it fails to be self-evident 
On present history's page. 

Mankind ma}' be as knowing 
And on the average just as clever, 

But they act and plan and struggle 
As if each would life forever. 



CONCEIT 

The man who thinks what he doesn't know 

Would hardly make a primer, 
Amid the darkness here below 

Doth scarcely cause a glimmer; 
Who thinks that this terrestrial ball 

Was made to revolve about him. 
Will learn in time how easily 

The world can do without him. 



PAGE THIRTY-THREE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



THE PESSEMIST 

Many growl at the weather, if it be warm or cold — 
Though it be just the kind that they need — 

They never are happy though they be young or old ; 
To complain is the whole of their screed. 

However fine be the weather in May, 
If there happens to come a slight frost 

They jump to conclusions and immediately say 
That the fruit crop is entirely lost. 

The peaches are frozen, the cherries are brown, 

There won't be a grape on the vine; 
Not a bushel of fruit will be seen in the town, ■ 

And we will have neither cider nor wane. 

If they can't extract misery from some real thing 

They will work up a hallucination, 
And if all else should fail to furnish the spring 

It will come through their imagination. 



He that attends unto his own affairs 
Has usually enough of worldly cares. 
But when he gets inflated like a bellows 
And meddles with the business of his fellows, 
He usually gets but little for his pain 
Of either earthy pleasure, fame or gain. 



PAGE THIRTY-FOUR 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



UP-TO DATE VERSION 

My country 'tis of thee, • 
Where men think they're free, 

Of thee I sing! 
Land full of graft and pride 
Where politicians glide, 
Where party bosses ride, 

And fraud is king. 

My native country^ thee, 
Land where the tramp is free, 

Thy ways I love. 
Love not thy rocks and rills 
But love thy greenback bills. 
And thy dear whiskey stills. 

All things above. 

Our new-found god to thee. 
Author of bribery. 

Thy praise we sing ! 
For in the earthly fight 
All that is legal's right. 
And morning, noon and night 

Thou shalt be king ! 



PAGE THIRTY-FIVE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



THE FARMER'S BOY 

Why doesn't the farmer's boy stick to the farm, 
Keep away from the city, secure from all harm? 
Why doesn't he enjoy the click of the hoe 
As he bendeth his back o'er the long 'tater row, 
While the sun beameth down at ninety degrees 
And sweat in great drops rolleth off at his knees? 
There needs no gymnasium to help the boy out ; 
Then w^hy in the world does the farmer 's boy pout ? 

At four in the morning he rolls out of bed 

with muscles contracted and a pain in his head. 

He brings in the horses, he feedeth the sows. 

He buildeth the fires, he milketh the cows. 

These may seem but trifles, you may call them but 

halves, 
But he strikes a full job when he feedeth the calves. 

From five in the morning until seven at night, 
Or from the dim dawn 'till the last ray of light, 
He plows and he sows, he reaps and he mows. 
And all that he gets is his victuals and clothes. 

In the bright summer time, when the fishing is good. 
When the day's work is done he is sent to chop wood; 
Or when the hired man long since has gone hence. 
He is sent to the back field to fix up the fence. 

From Monday morning till Saturday night. 
Without intermission, he keeps up the fight. 
Forecasting the future by what the present is giving, 
This life, as he sees it, is scarce worth the living. 

PAGE THIRTY-SIX 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



On Sunday morning he donneth his best 
And hies to the church to seek needed rest; 
He listens to platitudes so dry they would keep, 
And before he is aware he falls fast asleep. 

As his labors continue with increasing tension 
He suffers at last from a misapprehension, 
And thinks that his woes are the fault of his calling, 
But they 're due to the one into whose hands he has 
fallen. 

Man was not made to live by earth 's bread alone — 
If the boy asks for bread don't give him a stone — 
His mind is immortal and seeks a fit goal ; 
Man may dwarf his body, but can't fetter his soul. 

And so if the boy is to stick to the farm. 
Be kept from the city and thus free from harm, 
He cannot be kept there, as God is the judge. 
By trying to raise him to be a mere drudge. 



The World's a stage on which men play, 
The curtain drops, they pass away. 
And if their game's not been well played, 
The World no better by them made. 
What matter if they've played at all, 
E'er held a cue or rolled a ball. 



PAGE THIRTY-SEVEN 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



BE OPTIMISTIC 

Whatever you do pray never look blue — 

It is foolish to make this awful mistake — 

But look on the bright side for chances ; 

You should never think that whenever you wink 

All mankind will drop on their haunches. 

The world is old and m.ay seem rather cold, 

But men on the whole are quite clever ; 

Whatever their course, things might be much worse, 

And each stream on its way to ocean or bay 

Is certain to flow on forever. 

PEACE 

Men sing of the triumphs of glorious war, 
Of its pomp and its circumstance tell ; 

Which all sounds very well when heard from afar, 
But brought near to the home it is hell. 

To the widow and orphan it brings nothing but woe. 
It tells of the maimed and the dying ; 

In once happy homes where 'er it may go 

May be heard the sad voice of friends crying. 

But Peace, blessed Peace, is man's normal state, 
'Tis the measure of God's greatest love; 
From beneath ever cometh the spirit of hate, 
But the blessings of Peace from above. 

May this spirit soon rule in the hearts of all men, 

A spirit of justice to others. 
May all feelings of hate be banished and then 

Men be led to treat all as their brothers. 

PAGE THIRTY-EIGHT 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



EXPERIENCE VS. THEORY 

While coming events cast their shadows before, 
The light of Experience shovrs things as of yore ; 
He who lives in the present and thinks it will last, 
Looks not to the future, knows naught of the past. 
The young think the old man is simply a fool, 
A sort of back number that has ne'er been to school, 
Knowing nothing of Latin, of Greek, or of French, 
With language all broken and not up in Trench; 
Holding theories of life that are quite out of date. 
While his maxims are simple, his conclusions are late. 
And so marking out for himself a new path. 
His conceits being wise he cuts a wide swath. 
For a time all is well, could scarcely be better, 
Till he strikes on a snag and learns a new letter — 
Learns the hard lesson of life, of which he 'd been told. 
And concludes much that glitters is far from being gold. 
Though the lesson be hard, in the end it may pay. 
But the boy at his side starts out the same way. 



PAGE THIRTY-NINE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



THE PASSING OF A YEAR 



Butter is thick on the flap- jack, 

There is fire in the stove of the car, 

There is less demand for hardtack 

Since Johnny came home from the war. 



Soon Ninety-eight will have passed on its way 
And give place to new Ninety-nine; 

May the newcomer prove as fine every day, 
And its blessings as rich in each line. 



A glance at the past recalls much that is sad, 
But the good far exceeded the ill, 

For blessings unnumered each of us had, 
Which should every thankful heart fill. 



If the past should seem bitter why should we repine 

And brood o 'er the ills of our lot. 
While we foolishly charge the Divine 

With the evil our own hands have wrought. 



Let Hope be our anchor for the days yet to come j 
What recks it how fast they may fly ? 

]\Iay Peace, blessed Peace, pervade every home 
As it filleth the Mansions on High. 



PAGE FORTY 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



CRANKS 

Cranks are becoming plenty in all the walks of Life 

Who propose to turn things upside down and set the World 

at strife. 
They are found within the family, they try to rule the 

State, 
They are troublers in the Church of God while of holiness 

they prate. 



Things are never to their liking; they would right every 

wrong, 
And the World 's rejuvenation is the burden of their song ; 
But he who built all things is God, He formed them by a 

plan 
That never can be thwarted by the feeble hand of Man. 



For Man at best is but a worm, his life at most a span, 
Finite in thought and judgment the very wisest man ; 
While the ways of Him are infinite who formed us by a 

word; 
The wise accept Man's brotherhood, the fatherhood of God. 



PAGE FORTY-ONE 



A TRIBUTE TO WOMAN 

Would that I could pay a fitting tribute to the worth 
of Woman — that were a pleasing task if it were possible. 
Had it been given to ]\Ian to comprehend the Infinite, 
measure the stars and tell how each within its orbit doth 
revolve, and by what hidden forces they are kept in place ; 
fathom Old Ocean's depths, explore her unknown caverns 
and bring to light their hidden mysteries ; unfold the book 
of Nature and tell how each tiny germ doth spring, and by 
what subtle influences they are brought unto perfection — 
then might I hope to explain the workings of a woman's 
heart and tell the secret springs that prompt her into 
action. One of the poets has said of her : 

''0, Woman! in our hours of ease. 
Uncertain, coy and hard to please." 

He had better have said: 

0, Woman in our hours of sadness 

Changing our sorrows into gladness; 

For when beset by earthlj^ ills. 

Naught cheers the heart like woman's smiles. 

Much has been said of Woman's sphere, 

But to my mind it is quite clear 

That in the councils of High Heaven 

No grander mission could be given 

Than that revealed as G-od's own plan, 

To be a helpmeet unto Man — 

Not on the fields of bloody strife. 

But in the role of sister or as wife. 

And while Time unfolds the coming Ages 

PAGE FORTY-TWO 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



No sweeter name shall e'er be written on its pages, 

Nor would I ask for her another 

Than the dear, sacred name of mother. 

When Treason with most impious hand 

Flaunted its banner o'er the land, 

And in the name of Southern right 

Marshalled her forces for the fight; 

When from each hamlet of the North 

Her hardy sons to war went forth, 

'Mid shrieking shell and muskets' rattle, 

Fair Woman sought the G-od of Battle, 

Hoping for triumph not in might 

But from the Eternal source of right; 

Prayed Him to bare His strong right hand 

And give us peace o 'er all the land. 

And while engaging thus in prayer 

The sick and wounded made her care, 

Gave to our cause far more than life 

As sister, mother, or as wife. 

She's first in war and first in peace. 

Whether in France or ancient Greece; 

Meet her where'er you will or when. 

She is first in the hearts of all true men ; 

And he is but a wretched cur 

Who w^ould not die defending her. 



PAGE FORTY-THREE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



MENTAL GYMNASTICS 

[Written for the Blairsville "Literary Gynasium"] 

''How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood 
When fond recollection,' presents them to view — 

The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood, 
And every loved spot that my infancy knew." 

Thus sang a sad poet, we might call him a brother, 
Who had wandered afar from the paternal ranch, 

As he longed to receive the caress of his mother 
And on the home voyage was ready to launch. 

I too am stirred by a like recollection, 

As a fond retrospect of the past I now take. 

While I think with what care I made the selection 
Of the very best doughnut my mother could bake. 

By way of the orchard I went in a hurry 

To the foot of the hill by the side of the lake, 

With a mind not at ease, but all in a flurry. 

Where I ate the best doughnut my mother could bake. 

The sweet-smelling doughnut, the great, greasy doughnut, 
The very best doughnut my mother could bake. 

And then as I think when I came in later 
And asked for a taste, the kindly old soul 

After putting away the last of the batter, 

Brought them out and gave me my choice of the whole. 

After eating my fill and stuffing my pocket 
She asked if another sweet doughnut I'd take? 

PAGE FORTY-FOUR 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



While I felt like a pole driven into a socket, 

She gave me the biggest doughnut she could bake. 

The sweet-smelling doughnut, the great greasy doughnut, 
The very best doughnut my mother could bake. 

The years rolled around and a vision came o 'er me 

Which caused a sensation that seemed like a spell; 
It exceeded my love for the mother that bare me, 

But just how I felt I never could tell — 
'Twas a dark, chiU}^ day in the ides of November, 

There came a fair damsel to teach in our school; 
The first time we met, I quite \vell remember, 

I pulled at my jacket and looked like a fool. 

My ragged old jacket, my flannel-backed jacket, 
I pulled at my jacket and looked like a fool. 

Ever after my hair seemed to be in a tangle. 

Of oil and cologne I made frequent use, 
But whenever I met with the curly-haired angel 

I pulled at my jacket and looked like a goose. 

My ragged old jacket, my flannel-backed jacket, 
I pulled at my jacket and looked like a goose. 

Perhaps some of you have had the same pleasure 
As you met a brunette on the way home from school. 

And felt that you'd give her the last of your treasure 
While you pulled at your jacket and looked like a fool. 

Your ragged old jacket, your leather-backed jacket. 
While you pulled at your jacket and looked like a fool. 

PAGE FORTY-FIVE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



Many speak of the past as being more pleasant, 

Of the times long ago full of joy, 
Of how much better men were then than at present 

And life's pleasures were free from alloy; 
They dwell in the past and its memories treasure 

While the ways of the present they view with alarm; 
Its highest enjoyments afford them no pleasure 

And the future gives promise of nothing but harm. 

The past is now dead and largely forgotten. 

Its hopes and its fears laid in one common grave; 
Of its theories many have proved to have been rotten, 

The present is all that we really have. 
The past can't be recalled, while the future's uncertain, 

Why then weep o'er the one or fear for the other? 
O'er the last draw a veil, on the first drop the curtain, 

And treat every man now as a friend and a brother. 

Many look upon life as a deep vale of tears, 

And although joy might be theirs, never take it. 
They never consult their hopes but their fears 

And the depth of the valley is just what they make it. 
This life is a drama in which each acts a part, 

A race where each must have a goal ; 
The very best culture is that of the heart, 

The standard of value the soul. 

Then act well you part in this drama of Life ; 

Live for others as well as yourself; 
At the end you can smile at its turmoil and strife, 

At Man't struggle for honor and pelf. 



PAGE FORTY-SIX 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



LACK OF SAND 

There are hundreds of reformers 
Telling of the World's demand, 

But the greatest lack of modern times 
Is simply lack of sand. 



In the makeup of the average man 
To be found throughout the land, 

There is far more lime than's needed 
But not enough of sand. 



So when in the field of morals 
He is called to take a stand, 

He hides behind the curtain 
Just because he lacketh sand. 



If in the trying game of Life 
He is asked to take a hand, 

He throws away his racket 
And whines for want of sand. 



When struck by any adverse wind, 
Just because of lack of sand 

He fails to stem the tide of Life 
And is wrecked upon the strand. 



PAGE FORTY-SEVEN 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



A REVERIE 

An old editor sat in his cosy arm chair 
With feet perched on top of the table; 

Threadbare was his coat, disheveled his hair, 
And to solve Life's deep problems unable. 

He dreamed of the halcyon days of his youth, 

While visions of beauty arose. 
When all men were judged by the standard of Truth 

And not by the cut of their clothes ; 

When men were not pious but one day in seven 
And followed Life's pathway on Sunday, 

But right living was regarded as the highway to heaven 
And they followed that pathway on Monday ; 

When the great love of money had not blinded men's 
eyes 

And they felt that each man was their neighbor, 
Nor the maxims of trade were a tissue of lies 

To help one live off others' labor; 

When mere human laws were no standard of right. 
Nor was everything just that was legal, 

The meanest of actions being kept out of sight 
Because the actor's surroundings were regal. 

He mused of the men now living a lie, 
Yet trusting the Lord will believe them. 



PAGE FORTY-EIGHT 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



And hoping at last when they go up on High 
An Infinite God will receive them. 

If it be so or not, no mortal can tell, 
Nor measure God's infinite grace; 

If He give them a place in the basement of hell 
Or a basement in some other place. 



SHAMS 

Could this vast world be run by wind, 
Without the aid of cash or mind ; 
Not common sense be used, but sound. 
There would be more than would go 'round. 

If taffy as a regular diet 
Would help make silly men keep quiet; 
If man could live on papered puff, 
The silliest fool might have enough. 

Alas ! how much of earthly fame 
Is oft revealed as but a name. 
Given perchance the veriest dummy, 
With brain as shriveled as a mummy. 

Thus may be found on every hand 
So many men that lack for sand. 
And though life's battle be sublime, 
They ever fail to come to time. 

On fields where truth and error meet, 
Chaff won't pass current as good wheat ; 
In Life's fierce battle where men die, 
No shams on paths to glory lie. 



PAGE FORTY-NINE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



THE DEADBEAT 

There is a time, we know not when ; • 

A place we know not where; 
But this we know, 'tis hot enough 

To singe the Deadbeat's hair. 

And he that beats the printer 

Will have no second chance, 
For they alone escape it 

Who pay up in advance. 

While he that advertiseth, 

And fails to pay his score, 
Will have no new probation 

On that eternal shore. 

HIS OWN OPINION 

He who lingers among his fellowmen 

Until he reaches three score years and ten, 

If wide awake and clear of vision, 

Strange sights beholds before he reaches fields elysian; 

For earthly life exhibits many phases, 

Made up as 'tis of follies, fads and crazes. 

Man spreads himself like some great green bay tree. 

Making a sort of dress parade that other folk may see; 

^hile looking down upon his fellow man 
As though he thought that he had been built on better plan, 
And that the world was formed for him and him alone, 
While all that can be seen at last is simply his headstone. 

PAGE FIFTY 



ORIGINAL P0E:\IS 



RELIGIOUS 



A SOLILOQUY 

I am nearing the verge of the Jordan, 
But the thought brings no sadness to me, 

For soon I shall lay down Life's burden 
And launch on Eternity's sea. 



For now that Earth's sunlight is waning, 
And the shadows of evening draw near, 

Brighter visions of glory I'm gaining 
As the hilltops of Zion appear. 



I can see the dim lights of the City, 
But they seem yet away very far ; 

Alas! oh, my soul, what a pity 

That the gates don't stand wider ajar. 



Methinks I can hear the sweet voices, 
As they float on the still evening air. 

As the song of one that rejoices 
Welling up from the City so fair. 



A is not the sound of the battle. 
Nor the mad shout of hosts in the strife 

PAGE FIFTY-ONE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



It is more like the sweet children's prattle 
As they play by the River of Life. 



I can see the redeemed of all ages 
As close by the Saviour they wait, 

The friends of my youth act as pages 
While the others stand hard by the gate. 



All clothed in the softest of raiment 
They gaze o'er the bright crystal sea 

For which the blest Saviour made payment ; 
They surely are waiting for me. 



I long, oh, I long so to meet them 

And to gaze on my dear Saviour's face, 

In the Kingdom of G-lory to greet them 
And ascribe all to Infinite grace. 



Then why should I struggle to gather 

Earth's dross which mankind seems to love, 

But seek for the pure gold the rather 
In the Kingdom of Glory above. . 



A kingdom whose joys are supernal. 
Its glories beyond our poor ken. 

Enduring as God is eternal, 
Best gift of the Saviour to men. 



PAGE FIFTY-TWO 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



HYMN OF PRAISE 

[Tune — "Annie Laurie."] 

I love Thee, blessed Saviour, 

Above all earthly things; 
Thou art the source and center 

Whence all my comfort springs; 
Whence all my comfort springs, 

I would praise Thy name most high 
And would follow in Thy footsteps 

Till I lie down to die. 

I love Thee, yes, I love Thee, 

Because Thou first loved me 
And gave Thyself to save me 

From all eternity. 
From all eternity. 

Such love no man can show, 
The vast theme shall tune my praises 

While dwelling here below. 

I w'ould praise Thee for the mercy 

Vouchsafed to fallen man, 
For the promise of the Spirit, 

Part of the wondrous plan. 
Part of the wondrous plan. 

Who taught my heart the way 
From the paths of sin and folly 

To realms of endless day. 

When heart and flesh shall fail me 
And earthly joys grow dim, 

I would rest my weary spirit 

In the hope I have through Him. 



PAGE FIFTY-THREE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



In the hope I have through Him 

Of nobler joys above, 
When I bask in the full sunlight 

Of God's everlasting love. 

ON THE DEATH OF A DAUGHTER 

As the shades of evening gathered around her earthly 
dwelling place her spirit took its flight to the house not 
made with hands, eternal in the heavens. Through the Val- 
le,y of the Shadow of Death she passed into the sunlight of 
God's presence, and when her j^oung friends and school- 
mates brought of the fairest and most fragrant of earth's 
flowers with which to bedeck the casket containing her mor- 
tal body, she had already received a crown of Life that 
fadeth not away. The Church Militant has been exchanged 
for the Church Triumphant, the work of the Christian En- 
deavor for the full fruition of the Christian's hope. The 
stormy sea of Life has been passed, it's fitful fever is over 
and the haven of eternal rest been gained. A link in the 
golden chain of affection which bound together the family 
upon earth has been broken, but it has been welded into 
that more enduring one connecting with the loved ones 
gone before. Myrtie was a good girl. Surely it is well with. 
the child. 

Say not, for 'tis an intrusion. 

Her hope reached not within the vail, 

That her faith -was a delusion, 

Or that Christ's love can ever fail. 

The love of God that knows no measure 

She long since had made her own ; 
Prized above earth's richest treasure, 

Now she wears her blood-bought crown. 

PAGE FIFTY-FOUR 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



CHRIST'S CORONATION 

Hail to the dawn of Eternity's morning, 

Christ's coronation day! 
Oh ! joyous consummation, 

For sin has passed away ! 

His sacrificial work is done, 

Fulfilled the Eternal plan; 
There needs no mediator now 

'Twixt Gr'od and fallen man. 

For Death and hell are conquered foes. 

There shall be no more tears; 
Nor shall time itself be measured 

By the passing of the years. 

No more shall sorrow's wail be heard, 

Nor felt weakness born of age. 
Or aught to hurt or to destroy 

In all God's heritage. 

From North, from South, from East, from West, 

Behold the unnumbered host 
Trophies of Jesus' finished work; 

Nor has there one been lost. 

For all for whom His blood was shed 

As the Lamb that once was slain. 
Are now before the eternal throne 

Cleansed from sin's deepest stain. 



PAGE FIFTY-FIVE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



The lambs have all been gathered 
And are safe within the fold, 

To no more go out forever, 
And their number is untold. 



Oh, He takes the little children 

Within His sheltering arm, 
Bears them gently to the Father 

That they may be safe from harm. 



Brightest of all the jewels 

By God the Father given, 
Cleansed by His blood from stain of sin. 

Redeemed, made heirs of heaven. 



Hear the white-robed throng around the throne 

As they strike the sounding lyre, 
While the glory of Immanuel 

Wells from the angelic choir. 



For the kingdoms of this sin-cursed earth 
Are the kingdoms of Ooir Lord, 

Salvation 's work is finished 
According to His word. 



PAGE FIFTY-SIX 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



THE TRUE SOURCE OF SUCCESS 

[Written during the Spanish-American War] 

Men boast of our National heroes, 
Of Dewey, and Sampson, and Schley ; 

But little they reck of the Unseen Power 
That ruleth the world from on high. 



God formed the earth for His glory, 
He gave to this Nation a place. 

And these heroes of song and of story 
Are such through His mercy and grace. 



The thoughts of our God are unkn'own. 

No mortal can fathom His w^ays, 
But we know that He rules through the grace of 
His son, 

To Him let us give all the praise. 



Let us pray that no feeling of pride or of power, 
Shall enter our innermost thought. 

While we wait for the dawn of the gladsome hour 
To reveal w^hat our God shall have wrought. 



PAGE FIFTY-SEVEN 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



LIFERS PATHWAY 

I sat within the twilight at the close of a summer day 
And mused upon Life's pathwa}^ and the 3^ears that have 

passed away; 
I thought of my early childhood, joyous and free from care, 
Of the scenes in the old homestead and the friends that 

gathered there. 



Then I thought upon my boyhood days when to school I 

trudged away; 
Of the bo3^s and girls in the school yard with whom I was 

wont to play; 
Or as rivals in the class room where we so often met 
And contended for its honors with Harrv, Lize and Bet. 



These years passed all too quickly, as a dream they had 
come and gone, 

For we never stopped to count them as they came to us 
one by one; 

But they brought me to the threshold of the active scenes 
of Life, 

Its highways strewn with briars and thorns, its byways fill- 
ed with strife. 



The years have come and the years have gone with cloud 

and sunshine mixed, 
But the stars have never ceased to shine although they 

were not fixed; 



PAGE FIFTY-EIGHT 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



For the scenes of life are shifting, shadows there ever have 

been, 
But there has always been light on the hilltops, the swarrl 

in the valleys been green. 



Whatever the length of the drama, or the setting may be 

on the stage, 
The work of the actor be finished in youth or carried on 

down to old age; 
Though our part may never be leading and the playing be 

not of the best, 
Not our skill, but our will, when the curtain rings down, is 

the test. 



And now that the shadows are falling and the end of the 

journej^'s in sight. 
The voice of the ]Master seems calling, in the morning there 

will surely be light; 
Light on the hilltops eternal in that beautiful Land of the 

Blest, 
'^lid the joys of the region supernal where the weary shall 

be ever at rest. 



PAGE FIFTY-NINE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



THOUGHTS ON THE NEW YEAR 



We have entered on another year 
Of work and recreation, 

A year of joy, of hope and fear, 
Of trade and speculation. 



It \^'ill be like each one gone before 

And every whit as fine. 
From number one to eighty-four, 

This year of Eighty-nine. 



And men will die and men be born, 
Will o'er Life's sea be carried. 

And men and maidens now forlorn 
Within the vear be married. 



While men of prominence in State, 
Who oftimes show their faces, 

Within the year shall meet their fate 
And others take their places. 



And there'll be many men of might, 
This year shall reach the tipple, 

Will suddenly drop out of sight 
And scarcely cause a ripple. 



PAGE SIXTY 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



Within the cycle of God's plan 
For bringing in the ages 

The year will be but as a span, 
A leaf from History 's pages. 



It is not given us to choose 
If we shall write or not, 

If we shall win or we shall lose, 
Write legibly or blot. 



It matters little what its trend 
If it bring joy or sorrow, 

Whether we live until the end- 
Or leave the world tomorrow. 



If we have writ with tongue or pen 
A true and pleasing story, 

If Jesus gives the welcome then — 
Come, share with me my glory. 



PAGE SIXTY-ONE 



ORIGIXAL POEMS 



THE TRUE GROUND OF TRUST 

Though the fig tree ne'er should bloom again 

Nor fruit be on the vine; 
Though the labor of the olive fail 

And the field should yield no kine ; 
Though there be no flock within the fold, 

No herd within the stall ; 
Yet will I still rejoice in God, 

He is my all in all. 

Within my Lord's most secret place 

I would forever dwell, 
Beneath the shadow of His wings 

Who doeth all things well; 
Yea. I will make my God my trust 

Through every earthly ill, 
Though the shadows gather 'round me 

I know He loves me still. 

0, yes, I know He loves me. 

Else why did Jesus die, 
Upon the cross of Calvary 

For sinners such as I? 
Though the clouds should lower o'er me 

And my eyes with tears be dim, 
Yea, even though He slay me. 

Yet will I trust in Him. 



Be still my soul before thy God, 
Whatever He may send, 

Remember, He's thy Father, 
Thy ever loving friend ; 



PAGE SIXTY-TWO 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



For He is wise beyond compare, 
Knowing just what is best, 

And in His own good time and way 
Will orive vou sweetest rest. 



REIGN OF THE RIGHTEOUS 

Lift up your heads ye friends of Jesus, 
Fling to the winds your needless fears; 

Zion's bright King, your Prince and Sa\aour, 
Says you shall reign a thousand years. 

What if the clouds one little moment 

Hide the sweet light when morn appears ? 

Brighter the day when Christ in glory 
Says you shall reign a thousand years. 

Strong are the foes thy path surrounding, 
Scorning alike thy prayers and tears; 

Sweet is the voice of Him whose promise 
Says you shall live a thousand years. 

A thousand years ; Oh, day of glory ! 

Tis the bright star when morn appears, 
The herald dawn of blissful ages 

And every day a thousand years. 

A thousand years, my own beloved, 

'Tis the bright day from heaven unrolled; 

'Tis the glad morn whose fadeless glory 
Prophets and kings so long foretold. 



PAGE SIXTY-THREE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



WONDROUS LOVE 

What love the Father has bestowed 

On sinful, f aUen man, 
He sent His Son, His only Son 

To give them life again. 



Yes, life, eternal life, He gave, 

A life without alloy, 
A life of present happiness 

And everlasting joy. 



A hfe above where we shall reign 
With Jesus on His throne; 

We then shall see Him face to face 
And know as we are known. 



Oh, for this love let saints above 
Make heaven's high arches ring, 

While saints below in notes of joy 
The Saviour's praises sing. 



PAGE SIXTY-FOUR 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



THE LIQUOR TRAFFIC 

Temperance is regarded by many as an old and wornout 
subject. Well, it is old; old as the dawn of creation itself, 
for in the commandment given our first parents in the 
Garden of Eden the underlying principle was abstinence 
from everything in the use of which was to be found the 
seeds of temporal and eternal death. But that it is wornout 
is not true, nor will it be so long as sin and holiness, life 
and death, heaven and hell, are subjects worthy the atten- 
tion of the human mind. Yet there is no' evil of modern 
times that has been so thoroughly galvanized as the liquor 
traffic. All classes have tried to palliate and excuse it. 
Some have even attempted to paint it with a golden hue; 
but there is nothing golden about it but that which goes 
into the coffers of the vendors, and it is g'old tarnished with 
the blood of their hapless victims, dimmed with the tears 
of their worse than widowed wives, their more than or- 
phaned children. Its jingle in the till is as it were an echo 
from the wail of the lost. 

I have seen the hapless victims of this cursed trade in 
rum; I have met them in the market place; have seen 
them in the home, but the measure of their misery no finite 
mind can grasp or mortal tongue describe. I have met the 
ragged children of the drunkard on the street, I have seen 
their wretched mothers in their misery complete, I have 
heard their wail of anguish as they knelt at Jesus ' feet and 
prayed Him for relief. I have mused upon the primary 



PAGE SIXTY-FIVE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



cause there has been for formulating laws since Adam left 
fair Eden. Is all our boasted national right to grant the 
privilege to make men tight to those who come from 
Sweden, to furnish all who cross the flood a well attested 
firman to merchandise in human blood, whether Irishman 
or German, and in the name of natural cause God-given 
to mankind to trample on the highest laws both human and 
divine ? And is both Church and State to wink at this vile 
traffic in strong drink, this merchandise infernal, that 
makes the strongest man be weak, the glibest tongue unfit 
to speak, and damns the soul eternal; that mars the effect 
of church and school, that makes the wisest man a fool, 
robs social life of half its joys, makes demons of the best 
of boys, and home itself a hell 1 ^ 

Oh, Virtue ! Honor ! Pity ! when, oh when shall this 
vile traffic end f When on High Heaven 's eternal scroll, by 
finger of our God, o'er all this trade in human soul shall 
be written, "Ichabod?" 



PAGE SIXTY-SIX 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



DIVINITY OF CHRIST 

Brightness of the Father's glory, 
Image of the Eternal One, 

Second person of the Godhead — 
Jesus Christ, the Father's Son. 

God, co-equal with the Father, 
Born a Prince and yet a man — 

We should e'er adore the wisdom 
That devised the wondrous plan. 

Alpha of the things most hoped for 
When He hung upon the tree; 

When faith is lost in full fruition 
Christ shall its Omega be. 

When we hear the welcome message 
Echo from the eternal throne. 

Come for all things now are ready, 
Jesus comes to claim His own. 

Come, ye blessed of my Father, 
Take the kingdom long prepared. 

Occupy the Eternal mansion. 

With such as you it shall be shared. 

When I hungered ye did feed Me, 
When I thirsted gave Me drink, 

When in prison came unto Me, 

Of these, my brethren, ye did think. 



PAGE SIXTY-SEVEN 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



HUMAN LIFE 

As withers grass on meadows newiy mown, 

Or, as a shadow o'er Life's dial plate doth pass, 

As flowers of the field we flourish and are gone — 
Brief, transient, evanescent as the springing grass. 



As mist before the rising sun, 

A few short years of toil and strife. 

We fade as do the leaves and soon are gone — 
And is this all of human life? 



The end of all Life's love and care 

That unto man is given, 
The only answer to our prayer 

Vouchsafed to us from heaven? 



Nay, w^e may look wdthin the veil 
And view our Great High Priest, 

Where human hopes shall never fail 
And Love's a constant guest. 



PAGE SIXTY-EIGHT 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



SATISFIED 

Oh, when shall I be satisfied, when shall my longings cease, 
And the wild throbbings of my heart be stilled in perfect 

peace ? 
When in Thy presence I appear and view Thee face to face. 
When in the house not made by hands shall be my dwell- 
ing place; 



When I my blessed Saviour's face in righteousness shall see 
And view the place prepared for me from all eternity, 
When in Thy likeness I arise and know as I am known 
And with the friends once loved on earth I stood before 
Thy throne; 



Oh, then I shall be satisfied and give due praise to Thee 
Who didst redeem my soul from death from aU eternity. 



ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND 

Farewell, dear friend ! w^e say amid our pain ; 

Amid the darkness of our earthly way 

We cannot see, in this sad hour of gloom, 

The faintest daAvning of that coming day 

When God shall make it plain; 

But we would ask within His place to dwell 

And say amid our tears. He doeth aU things well. 



PAGE SIXTY-NINE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



THE FUTURE LIFE 

They tell me of the da\ATiing of an eternal day, 

Of the coming of a morning when Earth's years have 

passed away; 
Of the glories of a city with its streets of shining gold, 
Whose citizens ne'er weary, where 'tis never said one's old; 
Of the beauties of a river flowing close beside the throne, 
In a kingdom that's eternal, where God seateth all his own. 
When my weary feet do stumble upon Life 's thorny way, 
I would behold the dawning of that bright and happy day 
Where no clouds of sin and sorrow shall e'er obscure the 

light 
Of that morn that is eternal, of that day that knows no 

night. 
I long to bathe my spirit in Life's river's crystal flood, 
To know the full fruition of a trust in Jesus' blood; 
To leave all earthly care and strife, be free from every fear, 
With my Saviour's loving hand to wipe away each falling 

tear. 



TRUST 

To finite minds how dark G-od's ways, 

We know not His design; 
He blasts the hopes of future days 

And leaves us to repine. 

But though our eyes be dimmed with tears. 

Yet would we not rebel 
But trust Him through the coming years 

Who doeth all things well. 



PAGE SEVENTY 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



THE GOLDEN WEDDING 

This life's at best a brief probation, 
Though years be many or be few, 

Evanescent as a vapor 

Transient as the morning dew ; 



Made up of years of cloud and sunshine 
Times of hope and times of fear; 

When we reach our golden wedding 
Then the evening shades appear. 



But if life has been w^orth living. 
As the years have come and gone, 

Kindh^ words each other giving. 
Loving acts most fitly done. 



If our God but guard our footsteps, 

He will guide us in the way 
To a land that knows no sorrow, 
. Where no night obscures the day. 



May your lives henceforth be pleasant. 
Free from sorrow, free from pain, 

And w^e all, through faith triumphant. 
Simply part to meet again. 



PAGE SEVENTY-ONE 



ORIGINAL P0E:MS 



ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD 

I had a boy. a bright small boy with locks of golden hair ; 

His soft brown e3^es spoke volumes and his face was ex- 
ceeding fair; 

Ilis voice as the voice of angels all the happy livelong day, 

But I missed him one bright morning, for the boy had gone 
away. 

In all the years that have passed since then no word from 

him has come, 
And Life has not seemed just the same nor the dwelling 

place like home, 
For none have come to fill the place with the joy that Ms 

presence lent, 
But he is not lost nor strayed away, for I know just where 

he went. 

As he sang in his happy boj^hood, in accents of childish glee, 
Of the golden streets of the city that his infant eyes should 

see. 
Of the dawning of the morning of a fairer, brighter day, 
He was thinking, but I knew it not, just then of going away. 

Since he passed within the portals of the house not made 

^vith hands, 
To the very inner circle where my blesed Saviour stands. 
The veil that hides the future beyond the crystal sea 
Seems to but thinlv intervene between that home and me. 



PAGE SEVENTY-TWO 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



AN APOSTROPHE 

[To a victim of the Johnstown Flood, which occurred May 

31, 1889] 

Who wert thou? we would ask, for it is plain enough 
that this marred form, these rigid limbs and face expres- 
sionless, are but the semblance of thy former self. Where 
are thy friends? Did the remorseless waves in their mad 
course at one fell swoop blot out their lives and thine, or do 
they still remain to mourn thee lost? Where is the one that 
gave thee birth and gazed with rapture on thy infant form? 
She who with sleepless vigilance did nurse thee up to thy 
young womanhood — th}^ mother. AYhy comes she not, but 
leaves to stranger hands the last sad acts that kindly human 
hearts can do for thee, to stranger eyes to drop a tear on 
thy uncoffined form? Perhaps thou hadst a father, who 
with pride did fondle thee upon his knee in childhood's 
sunny hours, with infinite joy did listen to thy prattle, 
whose highest hopes on earth were for thy w^elfare? Or, 
it perchance may be that younger ones looked up to thee for 
guidance and relief in all Life's troubles multiform, the 
which to them seemed great, but vanished at thy touch or 
sound of thy sweet voice? What were thy hopes? Were 
they but earthly ones and swallowed up by the resistless 
torrent? Were all thy friends on earth and like thyself 
but mortal, or hadst thou made a friend of Him who holds 
the floods within the hollow of His hand and stills the 
tumults of the earth at will. He who hath conquered Death 
and robbed the grave of all its terrors by opening wide the 
gates of Life Eternal? And may it not be true that while 
we stand and gaze on this poor tenement of clay that thou, 
with all who loved thee while on earth, are singing hallelu- 
jahs to the Lamb with joy ineffable, and these wild throbs 
of human sympathy should all be stilled by the sweet hope 
of Immortality? 

PAGE SEVENTY-THREE 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



THE PASSING OF THE YEAR 

The years float silently along 
Like the passing of a dream ; 

Unconsciously they bear us on 

As the leaf floats down the stream. 



The Past is gone ne'er to return, 
The Present is all we have ; 

The Future is to us unknown; 
We are traveling to the Grave. 



How brief the measure of our days — 
At best they're but a span — 

Swift as a weaver 's shuttle 

Seems the averasre life of man. 



But this Life is just the portal, 

A receptacle, perhaps, 
For convenience of the mortal 

Where he leaves his cast off wraps. 



However dim may seem the path along our earthly way. 
Though w^e stumble at each providence and fail to see 
aright, 
When the glory of the Infinite shall gild the eternal day 
E 'en the way that now seems gloomy shall then be filled 
with lisrht. 



PAGE SEVENTY-FOUR 



ORIGINAL POEMS 



ON THE DEATH OF A BROTHER 

Would we join the throng that greeted him 

When he entered the pearly gate, 
We who loved him as friend and brother 

Have only to watch and wait 
For the dawn of a brighter morning 

When the King in His glory shall come, 
To call ns as His dear children 

To a place in the Heavenly home. 



Though thorny should be the pathway, 

And wearisome the race. 
At the end of the toilsome journey 

We each shall be given a place, 
With all of the loved and lost ones, 

With whom we 've been called to part, 
In the bosom of the Father, 

And in the dear Saviour's heart. 



I would not that my form should lie beneath some lofty 

shaft, 
If men could say in passing by, it was placed there by 

graft. 
Better by far some lowV stone should mark my place of 

rest 
With this in truth engraved thereon, ''He tried to do his 

best.'' 



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